Under Me You're Quite So New
by Alexa Dean
Summary: Summary: "Dean's not going to give them a chance to leave, or feel shame or regret, but he will give them a fighting chance. Because all those things Michael said are true and Dean will do whatever it takes." Warnings: PWP, UST, takes place in s5


It started with a game of poker, where Dean was ceremoniously kicked out for cheating, as if he would dare play Sam without an ace up his sleeve, as if he could trust an angel who'd handed him his ass time and again.

But the pair, Sam and Cas, has since moved on from playing cards to drinking. Abundantly. Gleefully.

It's apparent Cas has a liquor store on tap for just these occasions, guzzling a bottle of vodka for every one of Sam's shots. If Dean were a younger man, he'd be amused - would encourage it. But he's not, so he doesn't.

Dean doesn't stop them either.

He watches through a fringe of thick lashes, sitting on the writing desk by the window, empty bottles of beer at his feet. His hands moving restlessly, weaving his Zippo back and forth, between the webbing of his fingers and the others turning pages on his lap. Every now and then, snips of conversation bleed through the music blaring in his ears.

He's deliberately turned his back to the tableau beyond the glass and screen behind him, pretending to read up on angel lore. The ominous sky makes him think of storms brewing, but such signs are meaningless now.

Fireflies no longer fly before the rain. Birds stopped migrating south for the winter. Spiders undo their webs and hide, storms or no.

But Dean promised himself to put those thoughts away for the night, because if this really is _End of Days _then he wants to make the most of it.

Sam is at that stage of drunkenness where he's all hands and dimples and overheated skin. His t-shirt sticking to him, hair a damp mass tumbling over his shoulder blades as he knocks back another shot, slamming the glass down on the table.

Every now and then Sam's hand lingers a little too long on Cas' shoulder, the back of his hand, his knee. Sam's looking at Cas the way he used to look at Dean - before Stanford, before Hell. _Before_.

_Never after,_ Dean thinks with something closer to regret than bitterness.

Cas glances up and it's clear by his shuttered gaze the alcohol is working him over. Disheveled and drunk with his button-up shirt open to the middle of his chest and tie and trench coat nowhere in sight, Cas still manages to make Dean uneasy.

He's unpredictable when he drinks. Some nights, Cas is all loose limbs and owlish eyes, skin the color of skim milk, blue where the shadows touch it. Other nights, he humbles Dean by treading the stars to rubble and flecks of dust, wings encroaching upon Dean like aniline shadows.

And fuck all if he's going to stick around for _that _again.

Dean's flask is empty. He doesn't remember finishing it off. He's not drunk and he's not buzzed either. He's relaxed, as content as he'll ever get. And if he were at a bar he'd be talking to a pretty girl and they would leave together before last call.

But the risk of drawing unwanted attention is too high. Restlessness twists Dean's mouth, makes his skin itch, and turns the air suffocating. The tawdry hotel room shimmers in his peripheral vision, blur of brown and avocado green and 70s print wallpaper.

"Really," Sam barks suddenly, startling Dean. "You're kidding me . . ." Sam's laughing like he lost his mind, slapping his knee, dimples far deeper than Dean has seen them in years. His smile is a mile long.

And Cas is nodding at him, eyes steady in spite of himself, easing back in his chair and spreading his legs languidly. His pretty face composed in its usual serious mask. Always the good scout on his best behavior, but there's a spark, a quiet intensity Dean never glimpsed before. Like a cat waiting to be fed.

A murderous, lion-sized cat.

As if on cue, Cas and Sam turn to Dean, perhaps realizing too late he's in the room with them. Dean tugs his ear buds out, shutting off Sam's i-pod, setting lighter and gear aside.

_What_?" It doesn't sound like a question. Dean pushes off the desk slowly and folds his arms over his chest, gaze bouncing between Cas and Sam and back again, expectantly. Sam's long hair falls into his eyes and his big hands swoop to push it back, lips glistening a dark, intimate pink in the low lamp light and it reminds Dean why he should get laid.

Sam says nothing, but his expression is sly, furtively skipping over Dean in a way that would send Dean running if he were a better man. Dean knows the look. Has seen it on more faces than he can count. But he's never seen it from Sam, not directed at him anyway.

"What is it?" Dean's irritated now and tense with the rush of adrenaline and just maybe, a glint of desire.

They're fucking with him. Dean's sure of it.

Noisily Cas exhales and Dean stares at the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat - the skin so startlingly white it's like a wedge of mother-of-pearl.

"I do not joke," Cas says to Sam in a throaty voice, turning away from Dean as if Dean hadn't spoken at all. Cas' tongue flickers over his upper lip, chasing the real or imagined kiss of liquor. And Dean's breath hitches.

Sam's drawing up, stretching and turning, removing his shirt in a shimmer of bronze and creeping shadows, wiping his brow and tossing it aside. On Dean's _bed_.

Dean has a mind to complain, but he's transfixed by the image of Sam, half-naked and ambling toward him – marble-like curves of his chest shuddering with each step, jeans riding low enough to be illegal.

Sam is so beautiful; it cuts Dean to the bone.

Dean wants to go to his knees for Sam, press his mouth to the shadowy delineations of Sam's hipbones. Steal the taste of his brother's sweat straight off his skin.

He also wants to leave, but Sam and Cas stand between Dean and the exit. And Dean's not wearing enough – threadbare shirt and jeans, barefoot like he rarely is. Definitely not prepared to make a run for the nearest bar.

He shifts back, the desk's edge biting into the backs of his thighs and his knuckles turning frost-white gripping it.

He knows Sam is standing in front of him when his footsteps halt. Dean tips his head but keeps his chin angled down, looking at Sam through drawn brows. Sam reeks of whiskey - sweet and dark - and the briny, spicy scent of Sam underneath. Sam, who has always smelled like home to Dean. Sam who _is_ home.

It turns him on, and he's royally fucked. All of Sam's accusations ringing true in Dean's head, loud as a fire alarm.

Dean lowers his gaze.

It's been a long time since Dean confronted something like this. Not since Stanford, after Sam decided to stop calling without warning or reason. Dark times, back when Dean went home with strangers indiscriminately, sometimes taking on two or three at a time, never knowing if he'd wake up to perfume or cologne, cunt or cock, with blood on his tongue and a black eye or someone's fingers in his mouth and semen on his thigh and so fucking _raw_ it rivaled the hurt he felt down to his bones.

But Sam - so close - is tough to ignore, with hands upon Dean's shoulders and Dean having to turn away.

Because Sam's depth perception is off. _Really_ off. And Dean's pinned and knows it, between Sam and the desk, between a rock and a hard place in a very literal sense.

"So, Cas is tellin' me he's a virgin," Sam starts, waving a hand in front of Dean to emphasize his words, his warm, sour breath skating over Dean's face.

Dean wrinkles his nose and presses the heel of his palm against Sam, between the twin swell of pectoral muscles. They twitch beneath his fingertips. The gesture is not enough to push Sam away, but enough to keep him from coming any closer.

"Yeah. So?"

"He says he has no intentions of dying that way."

Dean blinks, pulls on his earlobe then arches one gloriously sculpted brow. His eyes skip over the washboard slide of Sam's stomach, the glint of tawny hair clipped short beneath the waistband. Christ, it seems the only thing keeping Sam from baring his ass to all and sundry is his cock - half-hard and too close to Dean's hip.

He finds himself wondering how far _does_ Sam's tan go?

"Sorry, um. I've tried already," Dean starts, then stops, rethinking his words. "I mean, I took him to a brothel. Didn't work out."

Sam smiles and rocks forward _pressing_ into him. Dean has no room to move, unless he were to sit on the desk, but that would leave him with legs spread open to Sam and he's _not_ doing that.

Not even a little bit.

Sam may paint him as some capricious and immoral creature and truth be told Dean has done little to prove the contrary, but Dean is _not_, damn it. Entertaining an idea and actually _going through with it_ are worlds apart in Dean's mind. After all, he's spent a lifetime holding back with Sam.

"_Shhhhhhhhhh_," the sound is long and drawn out as Sam presses two fingers to Dean's lips. The other hand moves to cup his face, absently rubbing his thumb into Dean's jaw.

He's so close, so fucking close, Dean can see Sam's pupils contract and expand until they fill each iris, like a time-lapse film of a blossoming flower, swallowing his image.

"You're not _listening_-" Sam's hips rotate forward into Dean - long, thick line of his arousal sending Dean's heart skidding. "He says he'll take one of us," Sam grins slowly, "or _both_." But I know you'd be weird about it –" Sam makes a dismissive gesture. His cheek brushes Dean's with the catch-slide of a cat's tongue.

Dean has to repeat it to himself – twice, in his head, looking for the misinterpretation - the pattern of misfiring neural fibers that _must_ be there.

"—so you and I are gonna play _rock, paper, scissors_ to see who goes first."

Dean chokes and takes the opportunity to tip Sam off balance and stumble forward, holding his throat and thumping his chest.

"_What_?" The word comes out croaky and he's holding out a hand to keep Sam out of his personal space.

"Nevermind," Dean adds. "I heard what you said. I think the two of you had too much to drink."

He peeks at Cas whose eyes are glowing like gas jets, blue stars, distant and superheated. Cas, who is now shirtless and stepping out of his shoes. _Fuck_.

Fuck all to high heaven.

Dean feels too sober for this conversation. Too sober for this _room_.

Dean's eyes must be taking up most of his face, because they're beginning to ache and he's holding both arms out now, legs shoulder-breadth apart to balance his weight. He must look foolish. But the room is imploding in the absence of reality.

Sam grabs him by the wrist like he has a _right_ to and _yanks_, smashing Dean into Sam and almost keel over.

Sam's huge hand pushes up under Dean's shirt, hot grip tight on his waist. Dean makes a solid attempt at removing it. Sam huffs into his neck.

"Rock, paper, scissors," Sam insists, making a fist and Dean winces when Sam's fingertips dig into his side.

"This isn't funny, Sam."

"Just play along, Dean."

Right.

_Just play along_. Dean puffs, a long, dishonestly put-upon sigh.

And he'd like to say his attempt was sincere. He tells himself he can't be expected to overcome years and years of muscle memory. Can't help placing Sam's wants and needs in front of his own, of loving Sam in the most destructive and visceral way.

If things panned out like this, he certainly didn't expect it, _especially_ not with Cas sprawled horizontally across Sam's bed. Too artfully arranged and seductive to look casual. A studied pose meant to deconstruct - slender legs drawn up and splayed, the modest swell of his ass meant to fit in each of his palms, the virgin bud of his hole petal-pink as the inside of his mouth. He's propped up on his elbows looking between Sam and Dean, a question unuttered, unsung.

Dean has never seen Cas like this before. Never imagined it possible. And it's brutal and erotic. And it makes Dean wary of a punch line and a hook.

"This is fucked," Dean says, eventually. "Really fucked." But what Dean really means is _if I do this, if I let you do this, don't hate me. Either of you._

Sam's shoulder brushes Dean's as he moves past, stepping out of his shoes and socks, eyes never leaving Cas, thumbs hooked along the waistband - susurrus of falling denim; the scratchy sound of cotton against fine hair.

Sam's skin.

Sam's _skin_ against _Cas_.

Dean's world is shivering apart, like a crystal vase vibrating to a dimly heard note with overwhelming _want_ unlike any other, and it shouldn't be like this.

Shouldn't feel so _right_ with Sam hovering over Cas like the memory of a dream forgotten, a dream that overshadowed Dean's entire life till this point. And it doesn't make sense to think he isn't sleeping now, that he hasn't been driven mad by it - the distillation of longing and blistering shame taking his breath away.

Stripped of denial, he knows _he_ wants this too, knows it's as close as he will ever get to the edge without falling in.

It's rough, the way Sam grabs Cas by the nape of his neck, dipping his head to crush his mouth against Cas, but Cas doesn't let him, turns away and comes up off the mattress like a shot, back arching so that Sam's face thrusts into his neck.

Sam maps the curve of his back, the clutch of his ass, the smooth plane of his thigh and pulls at Cas' knee until it bends over Sam's hip.

Slotted together, they move in an imperfect rhythm, slick-tacky flesh melting and peeling apart. It's sharp teeth and the threat of violence, but slow; Sam's hand coming up between them, gripping them both and the steady pulse-creak of mattress springs sending Dean groping for his dick through his jeans, achingly full.

It's surreal, all of it - his brother and an angel, the cruel, vile grip of depravity keeping Dean in place.

It's wide of the mark, but it drives into the meat of Dean's beating heart, words and jagged moans like knives, Sam's wild hair (of course) and Cas' chest heaving, his skin flushing a pretty coral pink against Sam's gilt frame. The room's too well lit for Dean, too well lit and the walls too thin for something so filthy and wrong.

But these are mindless thoughts and Dean feels unhinged and reckless. Lust and despair shoving Dean's fingers into his own mouth, popping the buttons of his jeans to rut against his palm. It forces him to consider Sam's parted lips gliding over Cas' shoulders - snapping at his skin and sucking bruises into it until Cas' cheek rubs into the bed sheets.

It's less fucking than fighting, Cas' hand in Sam's dank hair, tugging forcefully and jerking a cry from Sam. But Dean knows it's a ruse. Cas is the one calling the shots, even on his back with his head turned to look at Dean, pupils big and glossy as puddles of oil.

Dean's quaking, overcome with the instinct to _flee-fight-fuck_. His resolve – his resistance – falls away in a puddle at his feet. And he swears it looks like clothing and it sounds like the chink-clink of a belt buckle hitting the floor, the slap of his cock against his lower belly.

Sam is a wanton serpent against Cas with Cas' hand on his shoulder to guide him. But Sam's stubborn, pausing fitfully to suckle Cas' nipples to fine points, lave the elegant concavity of Cas' stomach, curling a tongue into the chalice of his navel, and bending to the curve of a hipbone, nuzzling his face into the delta of his groin.

Sam's knees hit the floor just as Dean's dip into the ratty sheets and Dean sits back on his haunches to watch. Sam seizes Cas' ankles and drags him to the mattress lip, hitching Cas' legs, one foot drawn up to rest its heel against his shoulder the other dangling over his back. For a second, Sam's eyes meet Dean's then scurry away, thumbing the cleft of Cas' ass thoughtfully.

"I'm going to open you up now," Sam says and with a smile Dean's never seen before, presses his mouth there. Sam is rimming Cas. Sam is _rimming_ Cas. It looks filthy and sexy and if Dean thinks about it, not at all unhygienic. Angel's are as clean as they come, he guesses.

But Dean isn't going to look away from this, no matter how much it hurts him, how painful the pressure in his chest and dick. Because Dean _deserves_ this.

Dean reaches out to Cas, the pads of his fingers skirting along the undulating stomach muscles, stilling the restless motion of Cas' hands with his own, holding them over Cas' head. And Cas lets him, allows Dean a semblance of power, however false.

Cas isn't pulling any stops, fucking up into Sam's greedy, wet tongue; groaning and panting and biting his lip until a seam splits and a pearl of blood wells there and Dean kisses it away, Cas' cock giving little jumps and weeping precome. Dean softens his mouth to Cas, the tip of his nose to his chin, opens wide to let him in until Dean's jaw aches and it's suddenly so vulgar it couldn't possibly be a kiss.

Dean starts writhing with it, like a whore, seeking friction that isn't there. He can feel something inside, like a vein, a rhythmic pulse that finally bursts and he sees red, tastes copper on his tongue. He cries out and pulls away, wondering what just happened. Cas smiles at him. Smiles. Eyes feverishly bright. Dean can't look anymore, so he looks to Sam.

Sam's cheek rubs into the curve of Cas' ass, eyeing Dean from between Cas' spread thighs - those unsettling eyes, wakeful greens and greys, crystalline blues and shrapnel-flints of gold.

Dean can feel the heat blooming on his lips and cheekbones, his neck and shoulders, his cock bobbing too heavy and too close to Cas' flexing hands between his spread knees, sweating precome from its slit like sap from a split bark. The smell of sex is hot and pungent around them, thick like damp wool.

And Dean's breathing hard, a racehorse chomping at the bit, skin prickling with sweat and the pins and needles sensation skating down his arms from holding Cas' wrists. Cas isn't making it easy for Dean although he's holding back. He's probably getting off on seeing Dean struggle.

"How many?" Sam whispers, a low filthy rasp.

Dean swears they both hear him swallow.

"Two," Cas answers, eyes closed, lips barely moving. He looks less human than Dean has ever seen him. He's never seen a body so purely albescent, like a figure carved of quartz or crystal. Cas looks beautiful and terrible and vulnerable, offering himself up like Christ on the cross.

It chills Dean to the bone but Sam doesn't seem frightened or deterred.

"Maybe three," Cas continues. "I'm not looking for tenderness, Sam. Don't need you to be gentle. Don't want it."

"Fuck, Cas," Sam says. "Fuck . . . yeah, yeah, I'll make it good."

Sam reaches for a bottle of lube sliding around Cas' side and slicks his fingers lowering his face to lick just as he pushes into Cas.

"Fucking gorgeous like this." Sam mutters, between pants. "Fucking knew it." The bed rocks with Cas' long, sinuous movements.

"Wish you could see it, Dean," Sam's eyes narrow. "Wish you could _feel it_ - all stretched out and taking my fingers. It's so fucking _tight_-"

Dean's teeth cut into the flesh of his lower lip and his vision swims. He could do without the running commentary, but he needs to do this.

Cas is good for Sam. Better than Dean and Dean won't be around for much longer. Dean's hands are unclean, guilt and grease and blood under his fingernails. But it _hurts_, won't deny it. The wound deepens with every filthy word and cry between them, shutting Dean out.

He knows what he's about to do before Sam and Cas even register that he's moving. Dean's crawling on his hands and knees over Cas - on top of him - Dean's arms and elbows bracketing Cas' slim hips, legs spread wide, knees abutting Cas' shoulders.

Sam looks startled to see Dean so close so sudden. Dean smiles, but his lips are tight. Cas' hands lift to brush Dean's ribs, his hips, moving to lick Dean's cock. Dean hangs his head to look at Cas.

"No," he says to him. "Wanna hear you." and Cas' hands fall away from Dean. He nods back.

Dean wants them to _see_, wants them to _know_. And Dean knows what he looks like, spit-slick lips and lidded eyes, the smattering of freckles like bits of a childhood that never existed. It disturbs some, and compels others.

This is Dean, the real Dean - hollow and hungry and spread out like an open road - just another hole to be filled.

And Dean goes for it, opens himself up, taking Cas down like a shot of tequila. Dean makes himself soft and pliant, hums at the nudge of Cas against his palate, curving past his gag reflex. Dean loves giving himself up like this, loves the tickle of pubic hair against his nose, the feeling of being _wanted_ and _owned_, however short-lived, however untrue.

There's no sputtering, no choking and it _has_ been a long time, but it's a lot like riding a bike. Besides, Dean's a natural. Dean's _got_ this. Made for it, good at giving people what they want usually before they know what it is. And there's not much he can do better than Sam, but _this_, this – Dean is the _best_. And isn't that the most fucked up thought Dean's ever had?

Dean may be showing off a little bit too, wanting Cas to come apart in his mouth, wanting him writhing like a soul condemned to fire. Exalting as Cas' hips lift off the mattress to fuck into his mouth, the feel of his hands touching Dean's face, feeling the bulge of cock through Dean's cheek.

It's going to bruise and he's going to be hoarse for the next week and Dean doesn't give a flying fuck. Not really. Not when he can lose himself - the smell of Cas like none other – clean and green, like absolution and blue skies.

And Cas still tastes of Sam – of his spit and the thin veil of salt left behind, lemony tang of Sam all over Cas' dick.

Dean wants all of it, is greedy for it - sucks so hard coming up he rips a startled groan from Cas. Dean is a hair's breadth away from cruelty, wrenching throbbing liquid notes from Cas, tonguing his slit like it's full of nectar and hollowing his cheeks with the strength of his pull until his ears ring and there are phantom starbursts behind his closed lids.

Watery eyed, he chances a glance at Sam. Sam is sitting back on his heels, watching them with hooded eyes, tugging at his cock, slow and easy. A sheet of sweat coats his skin, abdomen flexing with aborted little thrusts, huge dick dribbling at the tip. Sam palms his balls, the long ropy muscles of his thighs twitching, his breath huffy little pants.

Dean's so turned on he's dizzy with it. It feels like being remade again, Castiel's body flashing heat so intense Dean gasps, feeling like his skin is burning from him, peeled away from his ribs and skull. And it's the worse sort of pain, but he can't think of anything more gratifying.

Dean pulls off with a pop, obscene and wet with spit. He curls his arms underneath Cas' knees and follows the crease of Cas' ass, holding him open.

"Fuck him." Dean's voice is almost unrecognizable, devastated, like he's been surviving on nothing but unfiltered cigarettes and moonshine for months.

Sam lifts Cas until they're skin to skin and Dean watches Sam push in, lets Cas dig his nails into Dean's flanks, his teeth into Dean's thigh, feels Cas shudder when he gives. Cas' hole closes around Sam's head. Sam keeps going, going until he punches a breath from Cas and Dean lifts himself away. His back pressed against the headboard, legs drawn up beneath him. Not touching either of them.

Sam moves slowly at first, as though trailing his fingers through still water then puts his entire body into it, fucking like he throws a punch. It's both a blow and a gift and Cas takes it freely and with grace. The entire bed shakes with it and Dean doesn't recognize either of them.

The messy prickle of Sam's hair obscuring his face. Cas not looking at all small and waifish against Sam, hips pushing against Sam's cock, eyes shut tight as he buries his face in the hollow of Sam's throat, ankles locked in the small of his back, wet, sloppy sounds between them.

And just like that Dean is forgotten. Which is just as well for him. The smell of them overwhelming, assaulting him and he can't remember how to breathe or how to move except that he is.

He's running away, doesn't want to be caught up in the rhythm, _deeper-faster-harder_. His heart skips every other beat as he closes the bathroom door to hide like the worst sort of coward.

But he can still hear it – them –the thumping of the bed a steady, violent tattoo against the wall and Cas grunting in jagged bursts growing louder and louder, Sam cursing and whining shamelessly. Dean could swear he can hear wood creaking and splintering.

Cas comes first and Sam close behind - noisier, more expressive. And Dean already has a hand on the shower dial, waiting for warmth. He's no longer hard, no longer broken. He's clearheaded for the first time in years. His hands stop trembling as they move the washcloth across his skin.

Dean's not going to give them a chance to leave, or feel shame or regret, but he will give them a fighting chance. Because all those things Michael said are true and Dean will do whatever it takes.


End file.
